


The Golden Age

by maiaronan



Series: Clawen Week 2015 [1]
Category: Jurassic World (2015)
Genre: F/M, Tumblr: forsurvivals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-13 22:55:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4540581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maiaronan/pseuds/maiaronan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the start of something good, and right, and real.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Game of Chess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As depressing and gray as it sounds, there were only two distinct eras in Claire Dearing’s life: Before Owen, and the catastrophic-but-riveting interview that lead to the glorious era of After Owen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what I shouldn’t do? I shouldn’t try to write fics that involve remembering information at 1 am. You know what I should do? Proofread 17 times before posting.  
> Reposting this fic because in the first draft I called Hoskins “Vincent D’Onofrio”. I hope I’m not the only one who does this but whenever I watch JW I’m like “Oh look it’s Vincent D’Onofrio” so I rarely ever call him Hoskins. And at 1 am, that’s what my brain translates his character to. Good God. Anyway.

Claire was quite fond of her daily routine. She was quite fond of routines in general. Routines made _everybody’s_ lives easier. When a single, pale, and long-limbed woman nearing her mid-thirties sporting sky-high high heels and a glare that could cut through glass, is thrown into a somewhat functioning park with living, breathing dinosaurs fully capable of running amuck and tearing apart both the people and the infrastructure of Masrani Corporation, routines are a much, _much-needed_ blessing.

So Claire’s daily routine went as follows: she wakes up at exactly 6 am, when the sky is still dark, but the first glimmer of the blazing Central American sun begins to peak over the horizon in bleeding red streaks, dresses impeccably in one of the many tailored business suits that lined her closet and crams her weathered feet into a pair of heels, eats a bowl of cereal and drinks a large cup of tea, feeds the goldfish, collects her belongings, and drives to work in whichever outlandishly-expensive car Masrani had gifted to her for her efforts. (Except for weekends, when she got to sleep in until eleven o’clock and treat herself to a chocolate-covered Belgian waffle and a syrupy Starbucks caramel macchiato at noon). 

Then at her office, she pulls up the blinds and Zara walks in at exactly 8 am sharp, hands her a stack of papers, a briefcase of all the documents she needs to review, sign, discard, approve, along with her itinerary for the day. Claire usually meets with some important people, emails some important people, reviews the park’s stats for the day, calls some important people, and sits at her desk every so often to reorganize her workspace. 

Claire sometimes misses the daily routine she had B.O.

B.O. Before Owen.

As depressing and gray as it sounds, there were only two distinct eras in Claire Dearing's life: Before Owen, and the catastrophic-but-riveting interview that lead to the glorious era of After Owen.

Because when Owen Grady came plopping down in the office in all his 6 foot something grace, unshaven face and dirty fingernails, any concept of actually having a _routine_ flew out of the window and landed with a splat on the trash-littered walkway of Jurassic World.

“Mr…” Claire began, glancing down at the folder in her hands. “Grady,” she finished, “you are 15 minutes late.”

That day was the day Claire had been scheduled to meet with and interview the new inGen recruits, who’d been tasked with a new, hushy-hushy project that the actual Jurassic World management knew nothing about. It irked Claire to no end that a band of dirty, obnoxious _boys_ decided to intrude on her hard earned position of authority and just _make up the rules_ because _they are men_ and somehow get away with creating their own project, without Claire’s consent or knowledge.

She demanded that she at least had a meeting with the new workers to determine if they were… _fit_ to stay with the rigorous demands of the park’s management.

So she started off her day in a foul mood with her first interviewee being Vic Hoskins, a slimy, bearded man who’d spent the majority of their meeting boring a hole into her cleavage. Claire was so tempted to stamp a big, red, REJECTED onto his files but she knew that she couldn’t. Hoskins had a free ride just by being the head of the program. He knew things she didn’t. Heck, he could even have connections with Masrani that she didn’t even know about. As much as she loathed the fleabag, Claire had to approve him.

The other inGen recruits went by without much thought. She approved a few, rejected a few, and ultimately the rest of the day went by smoothly. She remembered Barry, the rather charming, rather professional, smooth-talking recruit who seemed like one of the few who knew what they were doing in her office.

And then, the last one of the day, 15 minutes late, Owen Grady.

She’d looked at his folder while she waited. Previously First Lieutenant in the Navy, his service record showed three years, various stations, and a generally brief report compared to the rest of the new employees.

Claire narrowed her eyes. There was one in every project. The “secret agent”, she liked to call it, the man who had the vaguest job description that was brushed over casually, but usually meant more than what the ink on the paper was telling her. 

She was sure it was Owen Grady.

And there he was, right in front of her.

At the remark that he was exactly 15 minutes late, he raised a bushy eyebrow at her. He had light brown hair and blonde-ish facial hair, bright eyes and a tanned complexion. His face looked slightly weathered, his hands calloused, his skin sweaty and something about him spoke absolute arrogance.

Needless to say, something in Claire disliked him even more than the creep Hoskins.

Claire glared at him. “Now, as you’re the last one I’m seeing today, it shouldn’t be as much of a problem than if you’d been the first and pushed back all my meetings.” She almost rolled her eyes as Owen folded his hands together and pretended to look interested. The faintest hint of a smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth, but he didn’t say anything.

Claire thumbed through the papers in his file. “Now, Mr. Grady, what is exactly your job position at Jurassic World, and more specifically, the inGen project?” she inquired as professionally as she could muster.

Owen glanced at her. He was rather handsome, despited his rugged look, she’ll give him that. “That’s classified information at the time being, Ms…” His eyes shifted over to the name plaque on her desk. “Dearing,” he finished. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you much.”

Claire didn’t let her steely glare waver for a second. “But you _can_ tell me what your assignments will be. Where have they stationed you? Which part of the park? Have you been tasked with lab work?”

“Why are you so curious to know, Ms. Dearing?”

Claire’s nostrils flared impatiently. “Because I am the park manager, and when I have a hoard of military men running around Jurassic World without my knowledge _or consent_ , for that matter, and it is my _job_ —“

“They put me in a bungalow north of the park,” Owen interrupted, leaning back on the chair. “It’s a 20 minute drive. If you want, you could come with me later to… _explore_.”

The nerve of him.

Claire gripped the sides of her desk. She was tired. It’d be a long day, and her temper was a short fuse. “You know what,” she said, gritting her teeth, “I don’t have time for you to be difficult, Mr. Grady. This interview is over.”

Owen tilted his head. “We just barely got started, Ms. Dearing,” he drawled, flashing her a sweet, seductive smile—how dare he— 

“I already know everything about people like you,” Claire replied, slamming the side of the folder on her desk with renewed viciousness. “You’re dismissed.”

A spark of intrigue flared in Owen’s eyes. He leaned forward. “You know everything about people like me?” he repeated, his voice soft. “You say that so _certainly…_ What do you know about me, Ms. Dearing?”

Claire continued to glare at him. “Yes, Mr. Grady. I do.” Her freshly-manicured nails dug into her palm. Her gaze brushed passed his disheveled appearance with disdain. “I’ve seen many men like you in my day. It says here in your file you served in the Navy as First Lieutenant, a highly prized rank and one that pays very well, but you were only there for three years, which tells me that you didn’t like it. No, not even that. You probably hated it, and couldn’t wait to be transferred to something else.” She narrowed her eyes until they were green slits. “Despite all the money you’d been able to get from your previous job, you still dress like you’re straight out of the backwoods of Montana, even when you’re sitting in front of me during a professional interview. You’d never wear a suit or tie or own more than two pairs of pants, which must be because you came from money. A lot of it.”

Claire watched Owen’s expression slip into a cold uneasiness.

“You probably ended up in the Navy to escape a life of luxury you were being pressured into back at home. Maybe your parents wanted you to go into business, take over a corporation like this one.” Claire rested her chin on her hands. “The military is definitely not a suitable place for a well-bred young man like you, is it? A great way to rebel against the status quo. However, it didn’t take long for you to realize that the military is also a corporation, a corporation of murder and warfare, and well, you got out. Into another corporation.” Claire blinked at him. “So yes, I know all about you and your… disdain for the mighty corporation. There are always a few of you around. So I’m keeping an eye on you, Mr. Grady, and whatever scheme you have brewing in your head to try to disobey me and take down the infrastructure of this park.” 

Claire drummed her fingers on the desk, her nails making a _clack clack clack_ as they went, and she watched Owen’s expression turn stonier as she finished her deduction. She wanted to feel smug, but something in the man’s eyes made her suspect that she was taking the first step into a fiery war zone.

“That’s quite the deduction, Ms. Dearing,” he said finally. He smirked. He _smirked_. Claire almost bared her teeth at him. “Is this a game you play with all your victims?”

“Just those that don’t know who they’re dealing with.”

“Oh, but Ms. Dearing, I know _exactly_ who I’m dealing with.” Owen Grady scratched his beard and chuckled. “Does the other player get a turn?”

“Be my guest,” Claire almost growled, crossing her arms tightly.

“Well, your extraordinary beauty must be a problem,” Owen murmured as his gaze searched her up and down. Claire felt a blush creep into her neck. She cursed mentally. “And you’re in a profession dominated by your male superiors, who mistaken that beautiful red hair for seduction, and you rarely end up being respected by your peers, do you?” 

This was starting to become a long, torturous game of chess.

He tapped one finger on his chin. “That makes you so… cold, especially towards men. Well, I don’t blame you, of course, I’m guessing the amount of sexual harassment you face on a daily basis rivals anything I’ve had to deal with back in the Navy.” His tone started to catch on a biting edge. “You overdress for every occasion, with those ridiculous wool suits and high heels on an island where midday temperatures can go past 115 degrees, because you’re afraid of not being taken seriously if you don’t dress like your salary, which I’m _sure_ is more than I will ever make in a lifetime. But judging from how lovely and pale you are, you probably never leave this building unless your life depended on it.” 

“I do _not_ overdress,” Claire snapped, completely insulted.

“When I came in here, I noticed that.” He pointed to a picture frame propped up at the edge of her desk. “The couple and the two kids. But that’s not you in the picture, so it has to be a relative. Probably a sibling and your nephews.” He reached over to pick up the frame. He wiped a thick layer of dust off with his fingers. “The year on here is 2007,” he mused, “you might want to get something more updated, Ms. Dearing.” He set the picture back down. “You care very much about your family.” _Sarcastic piece of shit_ , Claire thought. 

“Speaking of them, there aren’t any other pictures in your office, so I’m assuming these might be the last family members you sort of, kind of, care about. We have that in common already.” He grinned at her. “Two single people, alone in the world, working to cater to a consumer nation while simultaneously toying with the laws of nature. But the difference between you and me is that you give into this corporation and all the bullshit that comes with it because you haven’t been out of the comfort of wealth and power long enough to realize the bigger picture. Or actually _live_ a life that won’t shorten your lifespan by 20 years.”

“And you don’t, Mr. Grady?” Claire interrupted, almost rising from her desk. “Realize the bigger picture? Because I have a hard time believing you know what that is. You’ve been roped into one of inGen’s masterplans and I don’t even think you know what they’re doing.”

A heated, tense silence fell between them.

“Good day, Mr. Grady.” Claire threw his file into the cabinet drawer under her desk and slammed it shut. She pressed her fingers into her temple and sighed with exasperation. 

Owen slowly rose from the chair in front of Claire. It creaked under his weight. He made his way to the door. Before his fingers touched the doorknob, he turned his head back. “Ms. Dearing?” he said softly. 

Claire raised her head. She caught his gaze from the other side of her office. The sun was setting on Isla Nublar, its warm golden rays filtering into the room, the light dancing on the walls like an aquarium. 

“What do you do at…” Owen glanced at his watch. “6:08 in the evening on a Friday?”

“Leave the office. Get dinner. Go home and shower, read, and sleep.”

“God, that sounds awful,” Owen said decidedly. “Every Friday?”

“Every Friday,” Claire confirmed, resuming her icy glare.

“Well, if you want to do something different,” Owen gestured with his hand, “my offer to explore the bungalow still stands.” He opened the door and walked out, but didn’t close it behind him. “You know how to find me.”

Claire listened as his footsteps receded down the hallway. 

She sighed again and flipped through her desk planner. Yep, there it was. 6 pm, _leave work, eat at Molly’s All-American_. 

Same as last week. And the week before. 

What the hell. Was this mysterious military man who’d somehow had the balls to stand her up in _her office_ somehow _right_? Was she fated to just drop dead in a couple decades from overworking herself, slaving away like a mindless drone for a mindless corporation until she croaked?

Claire opened her filing cabinet and fished out Owen’s folder. She turned to the first page. There it was, right under his name. The address to his coveted bungalow.

Claire grabbed her car keys off the table and threw them into her purse. She drove out of Masrani Inc’s employee parking garage and made a sharp turn onto the dirt road. 

She drove right past Molly’s All-American.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Concluded in the next part.


	2. The Game of Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He kissed her. He had to. There was absolutely no reason not to. Okay, there might’ve been that minor issue from earlier… Wait, didn’t they hate each other? He thought she couldn’t stand him.  
> But when Claire kissed him back, his entire mind short-circuited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Clawen Week Day 2 Prompt: A Private Moment  
> Oh my. This ended up being way longer than it was supposed to be. Enjoy the ride! WARNING: Smut, of course.

The sound of a car engine pulling up to his driveway startled Owen out of the comfortable position he had settled himself into on his couch. He quickly glanced down at his watch. It was almost 6:30. Who would show up at his private residence at this time, and what could they possibly want?

Annoyed, Owen shuffled to the door and attempted to open it. The bungalow was still in the process of being renovated and the door had a tendency of getting stuck (and creak in the wind). He rattled the knob a couple times until it flew open. He opened it just in time to see a bob of flaming red hair climb out of a car parked messily on his lawn.

He couldn't believe it.

"Ms. Dearing." He couldn't suppress the surprise that'd made its way into his voice. 

She slammed the car door closed and glanced up at him. "Mr. Grady," she returned as she made her way towards his doorstep, her heels clacking all the way. Owen was still adjusting to the sound of her voice, wondering how she could make it so irritably high-pitched and demanding as well as silky and angelic at the same time. She was a bag of mysteries, of unexpected surprises, of puzzle pieces that didn’t quite fit together yet. Of course, he’d been warned about the control-freak park manager before going in for his first interview by the other inGen recruits. Something about her being “a complete bitch” but also “completely fuckable with enough duct tape around her mouth”.

What did she want? Owen wouldn't doubt from their earlier exchange that she was angry. She was probably here to reprimand him, or even worse, tell him that she'd rejected his file and that he was going to be shipped back to the mainland at first light.

Owen crinkled his brow at the thought of Claire Dearing potentially firing him. She  _wouldn't_... would she? She couldn't be  _that_ cruel... Of course, Owen knew nothing about Claire. They'd literally met an hour ago.

And yet…

"Are you here to punish me for my bad behavior?" Owen inquired as he watched her climb up the stairs to his porch. God, she was distractingly beautiful, with her windswept hair and perfect cheekbones. He could barely take his eyes off of her face as she turned to throw him a displeased look. 

"No, I am here to investigate," she said coldly. "Or  _explore_ , or whatever that word you used earlier was."

"You're absolutely welcomed to do both." Owen grinned. 

He could tell Claire was studying him. Her eyes traced the features of his face, like the wings of a butterfly and landing briefly on his eyes, his lips, his nose, his chin… Her expression softened slightly. “Are we going to stand out here and get eaten alive by mosquitos or are you going to let me in like a gentleman?” 

Well, if she wasn’t here to continue their fight from earlier, Owen was completely okay with that.

Owen pushed open the door and gestured for her to enter. Claire strode past him in her heels. Owen went inside after her and shut the door behind him. 

Although rustic and slightly worn down, his bungalow came with almost all of the state-of-the-art features Masrani Incorporated could offer, including geothermal heating and cooling, solar-powered electricity, and even a jacuzzi in his bathroom. It was small, wooden, but not too shabby for his liking. He was a simple man.

Claire looked around his place without much interest, but not with the disapproval he was expecting from her. “Not bad,” was all she said.

“Not bad?” Owen asked as he threw himself back onto his couch, sinking into the cushions. “What kind of luxury mansion did Masrani set you up with?” He kicked back his feet. “Anything more than one bedroom would be a waste on you, considering how you probably _never_ have any guests over.” He smiled slightly. “I mean, not any guests that you’d need an extra bedroom for.”

Claire was examining the stack of junk mail on his shoe dresser by the door, left there by the post man when the bungalow was previously uninhabited. She placed them back with exaggerated tenacity as she forced a tense smile on him. “And what about you, Mr. Grady? Do you have frequent… guests?” Owen watched as she walked over and glanced down at him. Her insanely long eyelashes fluttered over her cheek as she rested her gaze on his. 

“Guests, yes. Frequent… I wouldn’t say that.” He slipped his watch off of his wrist. “We get a little bit too busy in the Navy to be frequented by ‘guests’.”

She continued leafing through the rest of the mail that was left on the coffee table. He saw her shoulders tense up slightly. “What made you all so busy in the Navy?” she asked casually, but Owen could hear the slightest waver in her voice. She was nervous.

Owen let out a slow, somewhat defeated sigh. Claire Dearing was in his bungalow not to take up his offer to “explore”, or even act amicably towards him at all, but because she was still insistent on filling in the blanks of his missing history, even after he made it clear to her that she wasn’t getting a smidgen of information from him.

He scratched his head. “Look, if you’re here to give me a hard time about my inGen file, you’re not going to get anywhere,” he told her. “You might as well dismiss me from the job now and save yourself the trouble.”

Claire turned around, those gorgeous cat eyes ablaze like tiny jade coals. “Mr. Grady, I don’t want to _dismiss_ you,” she replied smoothly. “That’s not what I’m here for. I want to know you better, that’s all.”

Owen watched her with a cautious eye as she hesitantly pulled open one of his kitchen drawers and poked around. “Why don’t you come over here and we can talk?” he suggested, raising an eyebrow as she pulled out a shiny steak knife from the drawer. 

“I don’t want to talk,” Claire stated as she threw the knife back into the drawer. She looked slightly crestfallen as she paused over the kitchen counter, leaning back on a barstool. 

“But you want _me_ to talk,” Owen supplied. He chuckled mirthlessly.

Claire balled her little hands up into fists. “Mr. Grady, you’ve been under the service of slimy men like Hoskins long enough to develop _some_ sort of instinct that he’s up to no good,” she demanded all in one breath, her voice suddenly sharp and severe. “If you could tell me…” Her sentence drifted off.

“Hey, lady, I don’t tell you how to do your job, you don’t tell me how to do mine.”

Claire gasped audibly. “Alright, have it your way,” she hissed, slamming one of her heels onto his hardwood floors. “This is your last chance, Grady. You tell me what was supposed to be in that file report or you’ll never see this island again. What the hell are they planning for you to do here?”

Owen turned around to look at her dead in the eye. “I know you’re worried,” he said, his tone level. “But this is something that you can’t possibly worry about, Ms. Dearing. You’ll never stop worrying if you start now.”

Claire opened her mouth to reply, but Owen cut her off. “This is something out of your control,” he told her. “Yes.” He threw his hands up and caught himself narrowing his eyes at her. “Claire Dearing won’t have her way this time.” He snorted. “I can see why Masrani wanted Hoskins to oversee the inGen project over someone like you.”

The redhead in front of him gave him the steeliest glare he’d ever seen her give him. 

It would be easy to mock the way her legs almost crumbled between her body at the mention of losing control, as if the idea drove knives of doubt and panic into her mind and shattered her calm demeanor like a half-frozen lake, but Owen could only blink sympathetically at her as he realized how truly fragile she was. Not just in her slender stature, but in the way she tugged at her sleeves and blinked back hot, angry tears as she made her way rapidly to the door of his bungalow. “They’ll all regret this,” she muttered to herself furiously under her breath as she struggled to put on her heels at the doorway. “Billions of dollars in assets in the hands of these monkeys, and when someone loses a limb or eye or half a million dollars it’ll be Claire Dearing’s fault—“ She let out a little shriek of frustration as one of her heels broke clean in two. She threw what was left of it at the wall. Violently. It left a sizable dent in the drywall. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” Owen said sharply as he leaped off of his couch and flew after her. He pressed his hand onto her shoulder right before she threw herself out the door. “Ms. Dearing. Calm down. Come on, look at me. Aw, no, don’t cry, please.”

“I’m not crying!” Claire snapped, blinking rapidly before tearing herself away and smacking the back of her hand to her eyes in a silent, disappointed anger. She tried to shrug him off. “Thank you for your concern, I’m sorry for the outburst and bothering you, now I’ll be on my way.”

Owen felt concern flicker in the back of his mind. “Hey, I don’t think you should try to drive back at night when you’re not… emotionally stable?” He cringed inwardly as Claire’s nostrils flared. He could almost feel her rage bubbling up against him. “Miss… I’m sorry if what I said earlier upset you…”

“No, of course not.” Claire sniffled and tossed her hair. “You were speaking the truth.”

He tightened his lips as he watched Claire blink away her tears, until her eyes became glassy and dull. It almost frightened him to see her like that. She looked like a dusty, bedraggled bird.

He regretted being so harsh towards her. 

“Here,” Owen began, his voice perking up. “I got a couple of beers in the fridge, you can have one, or, uh, more, if you’d like.” He lifted his hand off of her shoulder. “They have some great stuff on this island,” he continued as he made his way across the bungalow to the kitchen, keeping a wary eye out to make sure Claire didn’t bolt out. “How about it? Just a beer. And a friendly chat.” He sighed as Claire continued to stare at the ground. “To reconcile.” If alcohol couldn’t fix the disaster they’ve planted themselves in, nothing would.

It took an eternity and a half for her to nod slowly. But it was a nod nonetheless. 

_Great_ , Owen thought as he grabbed two cold beers out of his fridge and popped the caps off. _I’m not trained for this. If she murders three men tomorrow it will not be my fault._ “Why don’t you have a seat, Ms. Dearing?” he inquired politely, gesturing to the couch. “It’s a lot more comfortable than it looks.”

Claire shuffled over like a robot, her sniffles residing, and took a seat next to him.

His lamps flickered as a strong wind blew across his bungalow.

The two were silent for a good while. Owen didn’t want to stare at Claire (although it was difficult), so he kept a side-eye on her. Claire leaned on the arm of one side of the couch, slowly sipping the beer he’d given her like it was a fine wine instead of… well… beer. She rolled the bottle between the palms of her hands from time to time. Owen suspected she was thinking deeply. Sometimes she would shift and make a disgruntled noise in the back of her throat.

There was nothing awkward about their company. It was as if they sat on the same wavelength, both perfectly in sync with each other’s thoughts and movements. It was remarkable how quickly they went from wanting to tear out each other’s throats to sharing a comfortable silence. Owen was confused, but mostly grateful. And amazed. 

They sat there for so long that the condensation on the beer bottles (the amount of which had grown exponentially over the past few hours) puddled on the glass coffee table. Owen had almost drifted off as he listened to the frogs and crickets of the island outside and the hum of the fluorescent lamp beside them when he heard Claire break the silence. He startled at the sound of her voice. 

“Do you think he’ll start doing that more now?” she murmured. Her voice was soft, but it sounded deafening against the silence they’d become accustomed to. “Masrani. Leaving me out of park operations. Repla—replacing me with people like Hoskins.” Claire cupped her chin in her hands, her brows knitting together in distress. She looked miserable.  

Owen frowned at her. Was that all she’d been thinking about for the entire time? He wondered how she could possibly be functioning as well as she was with the amount of stress she put on herself. He closed his eyes. “You haven’t been replaced,” he told her. 

“Are you sure?” Claire mumbled, tugging at her sleeve again. “Whatever. I don’t know anything nowadays.” She let out a devastated sigh.

Owen gave her a half-smile. “Don’t worry,” he said sincerely, reaching out to brush a strand away from her eyes. Claire glanced up and looked confused for a split second. Owen’s hand stopped in midair. Claire’s eyes shifted back into an expressionless stupor and she leaned forward slightly, indicating her consent to have her hair moved. Owen hesitantly, awkwardly, brushed the loose curl behind her ear.

Her skin was impossibly soft. Owen had to force himself to stop from grabbing her face with his entire hand. The warmth of her cheek brushing under his knuckle sent a tremor through his body.

As he was trying to regain his senses, he almost didn’t notice Claire’s own dainty hands reaching up to caress his own in a show of gratitude. “Thanks,” she sighed. 

It was kind of pathetic how touching her hand for two seconds could turn him on as much as it did at that moment. 

Owen let his arm slide past the back of her head and curve around her shoulder. He couldn’t tell what was going through Claire’s mind or read any of her expressions, but it didn’t seem like she _didn’t_ want him to touch her. She wasn’t resisting, or even tightening up against him, so he pulled her into a loose embrace, resting her on the side of his body and letting her head fall onto his chest.

Her warm body felt so deliciously good against his. Her hair smelled like an expensive fragrance of roses and vanilla. Jesus, when was the last time he made physical contact with a woman (that wasn’t a handshake)? No, they weren’t doing much of anything, but something about the way Claire’s waist curved into his hips and how his shoulder cradled her delicate head made his body tingle with delight. 

Claire Dearing could never stop being beautiful, which was, as he mentioned earlier, a real problem. Even when she was in a flying fit of rage she was beautiful, in a terrifying way, like how firestorms and tigers and hurricanes were beautiful. But when Claire was quiet, she resembled a rose petal, drifting quietly downstream. 

Owen closed his eyes. He decided that even if this was the only thing Claire wanted to do, he’d be absolutely content. 

Well, if this was a game of chance, he got lucky. 

Claire’s hand was reaching around to his waist. Her palm was warm and her touch welcoming. His muscles jumped as she ran her fingers across his chest. “What are you doing?” he whispered into her hair. The strands tickled his chin as she turned her head upwards to look at him. Her green eyes were dewy with dried tears and sleepiness. “That’s classified,” she whispered back. 

He kissed her. He had to. There was absolutely no reason not to. Okay, there might’ve been that minor issue from earlier… Wait, didn’t they hate each other? He thought she couldn’t stand him. 

But when Claire kissed him back, his entire mind short-circuited.

Claire was a good kisser. Amazing, actually. How did she get to be so good at locking lips? Did she practice often with her co-workers— 

“Owen.” He felt his name on his lips. His _first_ name. “O _wen_ ,” Claire said again, stretching out the last syllable until it melted into a tantalizing moan. 

He gripped onto the fabric of the couch and willed himself not to completely lose his shit right there and then. Owen was genuinely surprised at how quickly reality was losing its grip as _she_ was tightening it… 

When _was_ the last time he got to experience this? Did it really matter? He let out a shaky breath as he felt Claire’s hands tangle in his hair. “Yes?” he whispered into her cheek. He let his kisses trail down onto her porcelain neck. All her bones were perfectly defined and structured under her milky white skin. “Does this mean I get to call you Claire?” He felt her upper body shift upwards to meet his lips, the two of them sinking down into the couch. He had her under his body, his arms tucked under hers, bringing her closer to him. She was so unbelievably soft and small and it all felt so wonderful Owen didn’t even notice he almost stopped breathing. 

“ _Yes_.” Claire sighed with pleasure. Owen saw her smile for the first time that day. For the first time… ever.

“What else can I do now, Claire?” he murmured as he readjusted himself over her, letting her body rub him in all the right places. A layer of sweat was starting to build up between them as they tangled themselves in an amorous embrace, letting their lips and hands explore each other. Owen slid his hands under her blazer, feeling her bare skin spark under his fingers. “Can I take this off?” he asked as he pushed it towards her head. Claire lifted her arms and let her top slide off. Owen tossed it onto the floor. 

His lips found her newly-exposed skin almost immediately, drinking in her scent. He bent down to kiss her stomach, humming with pleasure as Claire ran her fingers through his hair. HIs hands slid under her and up her back, landing on her bra clasp. He fiddled with it for a moment. 

Resting his chin on her stomach, Owen glanced up to catch a glimpse of Claire. Her usually-impeccable hair was all over the place, and her makeup slightly smudged. Layer by layer, Owen was peeling away at the facade that Claire carried around with her day by day, and he felt a sort of excitement pounding in his veins, thundering in his ears, that he was seeing a wonder of the world that nobody else has ever seen before. 

He felt Claire’s hands over his. She’d reached behind her back and had popped off the clasp before he could get to it. Giving him the most enchanting, playful smile he’d ever seen on a woman’s face, she shrugged off her bra and threw it into a pile next to her clothes.

Claire slid her hands under his shirt, feeling the way his skin jumped and adored her touch, as he leaned forward to close the distance between him and her perfect breasts with his hands. Claire watched him with big, hopeful eyes as he navigated her body, her parted, panting lips shiny and bruised from his kisses. 

“What’s that look for?” he asked, cupping both of her breasts with his hands. Her nipples hardened under his calloused fingers. Claire let out a tortured whimper that could rival the ones he’d heard in the various pornos he’d watched during his stint in the Navy— God, he needed to get out of his jeans as soon as humanly possible or else he was going to explode. “You want to kiss?” he murmured as he placed his lips onto the corner of her mouth. She nodded vigorously and he let his tongue slide in. He could feel her naked flesh burning into his clothes as she squirmed with overwhelmed pleasure. 

“We have to… bed… bedroom… now,” Owen gasped for breath after he broke away from her. He scooped her up into his arms. She squealed in protest, but didn’t resist, and let herself be carried into the next room.

If she’d noticed the mess he’d already made in there, she didn’t comment. He dumped her rather ungraciously onto his bed. The springs creaked under her weight. Claire propped herself up and watched with lustful eyes as Owen attempted to strip himself in record time. He watched _her_ as she took her sweet time to _slowly_ push her pants and underwear off of her body. He let out a sigh of relief as his aching cock was finally freed from his jeans. Throwing everything into a tidy corner, he clambered over her onto the bed. 

At this point, maybe something should’ve felt awkward. Or wrong. Or horrifically embarrassing. He was hunched over what was essentially his boss, whom he’d met roughly 3 hours ago— was this even legal? Of course it was. Who was he—

HIs thought processes completely halted as he felt Claire’s hand wrap around his member. He inhaled sharply. She was eying it with a newfound interest, the beginnings of a catlike smirk forming on her lips. 

“Come on,” Claire whispered, tugging him. He gripped the bedsheets, almost wanting to scold her for being so reckless. He didn’t know why, but he was so close that time that she could _breathe_ and he’d be spilling himself all over her. 

“Wait.” Of course, Owen didn’t actually want to wait. He pried her fingers off of his dick. “I need to find a—“

“It’s fine,” Claire responded, trying to control her labored breathing. Her face was incredibly flushed. “I’m covered. I’m clean. It’s all up to you.”

Owen nodded and pressed a surprisingly tender kiss to her forehead. Claire’s thighs found their way around his waist and squeezed him encouragingly. Owen gritted his teeth and sunk himself into her. Oh _God_ she felt so fucking good he could almost lose it and come right there and then— 

Owen pressed his face clumsily into the pillow next to Claire’s head as he thrust in and out of her, trying to keep his eyes open so he could look at her while she moaned and cried and kept arching her back for more and more—“You’re so tight,” he groaned into her ear as she became slicker and slicker between their legs. “You feel so good, _fuck_. _Claire…_ ”

“Owen?” she breathed, her eyes glazing over with ecstasy. 

“I’m going to come in you,” he murmured, gripping onto her waist like his life depended on it. “And then all over you, and then we’re going to go again and again…”

Claire squeezed her eyes shut and opened her mouth in a silent scream as Owen went all the way in, hard. “Owen,” she moaned. “Don’t stop. I’m… I’m gonna…”

“Again,” he demanded breathlessly, feeling the orgasm riding up his dick like a bullet. “Say my name, Claire.”

She did, her fingernails digging into his back as the ripples of her orgasm sent her screaming into his chest. Owen could barely comprehend what was happening as he unloaded himself deep into her and collapsed.

It was all dirty, sticky, hot, wet… But Owen had never experienced an afterglow as pleasurable and as damn perfect as the one he’d experienced with her.

“Dolphins,” he panted as he pulled himself out of her and rolled over to the other side of the bed. He didn’t have the brain power to worry about clean up. He was absolutely exhausted. 

Claire, practically immobile after the orgasm that’d just shredded through her, opened one eye to peek at him. “What?” she asked, giving him a sour face.

“Sorry, did I just ruin the moment?” Owen grinned.

“No… What… Dolphins?” Claire echoed, raising an eyebrow in confusion.

“That’s what I did in the Navy,” Owen said, still catching is breath as he kicked his blanket towards him. “I trained dolphins and other marine animals for military use. You can probably guess it didn’t work out very well.” He placed the blanket over Claire and let her tuck herself in. “And now I’m here.”

Claire blinked at him. “An animal trainer…” she murmured, half to herself. “What could they possibly want with you…”

“I don’t know,” Owen yawned as he fluffed up his side of the pillow. 

Claire looked exasperated. “You don’t _know_ ,” she repeated sarcastically.

“I don’t, I swear,” Owen said. He found himself grinning again. “I’m just on standby until they tell me what I’m doing at the park.”

Claire scoffed. “I have a hard time believe _that_ , Mr. Everything’s-Classified.” 

“Hey, we’re back to all the formalities? You didn’t seem to have a problem with not using them a couple minutes ago—“

“Oh hush,” Claire interrupted, but Owen could tell her tone was light and teasing. 

“I wouldn’t lie to you, Claire.”

“You wouldn’t?” Claire inquired sleepily as eyes fluttered shut. 

“I was just inside of you,” Owen pointed out. “Literally. I don’t think we have any trust issues going on here.”

Claire smiled sweetly. “I think you’re right, Owen.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took so long to actually get to the smut. I like lots of buildup and plot-ish things before my smut. But let me know if you'd just prefer smut right out of the gate. I'm trying a lot of new writing styles lately.


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